The boy ran. His lungs screamed. His legs barely obeyed. His vision blurred from wind and tears.
But still—he ran.
The broken streets of New Bastion blurred beneath him, lit by the cold flicker of dying neon signs and fires that never seemed to burn out. Ash clung to the buildings like rot. Whole skyscrapers leaned like tombstones. The city was sick, and it was too far gone for saving.
But he had to run anyway.
Behind him: five men. Not soldiers. Not rebels. Just predators. Stripped of allegiance, honor, and even purpose. In this world, when law dies, monsters crawl from its corpse.
Their boots struck the ground like war drums, closer now. They laughed as they chased him—not because it was funny, but because they already knew he couldn't get away.
"Keep running, rat! I like a little struggle!"
"I want his shoes, you take the rest!"
"Don't trip now, boy—wouldn't want to break before we do it for you!"
The boy turned sharply into an alley, stumbling, slipping on loose rubble and shattered glass. He didn't feel the pain anymore. Only the terror.
His foot caught. He fell. But he scrambled up. Bleeding. Crying. Running again.
He didn't know where he was going. Only that something in him—something ancient and desperate—was pulling him forward. Down a twisted road of collapsed scaffolding. Through the remains of what was once a church. Across a cracked boulevard named for a hero long forgotten.
And then—he saw something.
A figure.
Emerging through the mist. Towering. Steam rising from the vents in his freshly-sealed armor, the light of scorched circuitry flickering across his plated limbs. Helmeted. Faceless. Unmoving.
The symbol of blade and skull gleamed from the chest of his armor—etched deep, untouched by rust, like a warning carved into fate itself. His shadow stretched behind him like prophecy.
The boy slammed into him—like a bullet hitting a fortress—and collapsed at his feet.
There was no question in his heart. No confusion. The boy dropped to his knees, clinging to the titan's leg like a child to a god. Not from fear, but from relief.
Behind him, the five men skidded to a halt. The lead predator choked on his own breath.
"Oh… fuck."
They didn't speak again. They turned. And they ran.
The boy trembled, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts, gasping for air he couldn't hold. His hands clung to cold armor, fingers digging into the grooves like he feared the titan might vanish if he let go.
Maverick didn't move.
The boy pressed his face to the steel. His voice cracked when he spoke. "T-Thank you. They were gonna kill me. First my clothes… then—then me—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Maverick looked down. Slow. Silent. The reflection of the boy's fear gleamed faintly across his visor. Then—without a word—he lifted a single hand.
The heavy gauntlet hovered for a breath above the boy's head. Then lowered. Heavy. Gentle. Final.
His voice came through the helmet. Not booming. Not loud. Just absolute.
"You're safe."
The boy looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. And then—he smiled. A real, trembling smile. He stepped back. Wiped his nose. And ran. Not out of fear, but into a future that, for the first time in a long time, felt possible.
Maverick remained still. For a moment, all was quiet.
Then, he lifted his head.
His visor scanned the horizon. Screams pierced the stillness. A low rumble echoed in the distance. Explosions. Fire. Chaos.
Across the shattered cityscape, far above the rooftops, platforms shimmered in the rising smoke. Ship-docks. Civilian evac points. They were under attack.
Without hesitation, Maverick moved. He crouched, the servos in his legs winding and locking. The ground beneath him cracked.
He leapt. Up through the smoke, over broken towers, into the rising inferno.
He landed on the platform, and the steel deck shook.
The platform was on fire. Not metaphorically. Literally. Fires bloomed across the deck like hungry mouths, licking at the edges of loading ramps and supply crates. Civilians screamed as they scrambled for cover—parents clutching children, soldiers dragging wounded, chaos everywhere.
Above it all, one ship's engines powered up. Its turbines whined with desperation, flames curling beneath the launch ramp. Seven men moved around the vessel. Not evac crew. Not soldiers. Thieves looking to escape while others burned.
Maverick's boots struck steel with enough force to crack the surface. Smoke peeled away from him like it feared to cling. People turned and stared. Not at a savior. Not at a soldier. At a force.
He didn't look at them.
His visor scanned the flames crawling toward the fleeing crowd. Without a word, he turned, ripped a water pipe from the wall like it was twine, and directed the geyser of pressurized coolant across the blaze. Screams turned to silence. Panic turned to awe.
He dropped the pipe. Turned again. Now—the ship.
Two of the rebels spotted him. "It's one'a them! Open fire!"
Rounds sparked off his chest like rain off iron. Maverick didn't flinch. Didn't slow. He reached them in four strides. Raised a single arm. Two bodies. One swing. Silence.
He reached into a compartment at his hip, pulled a small black sphere, pressed once, and threw it.
The orb cracked mid-air, unfolding into a net of needle-threaded metal that slammed down on two more men. It drilled into the platform with six burning spikes, anchoring them to the steel. Immobilized. Screaming. Not dead. Just done.
The ship lifted. Engines flaring. The remaining pilots panicked.
Maverick grabbed a rear strut bar as the vessel lifted—and pulled.
The ship screamed. Metal bent. The entire craft slammed back onto the deck with a thud of finality. He drove his fist through the engine casing like it was paper. Sparks. Smoke. Silence.
He walked calmly around the wrecked hull. The remaining rebels were already off their feet. They dropped their weapons. Raised their hands. Dropped to their knees. They didn't beg. They didn't speak. They just surrendered.
Maverick secured them with speed and precision, then tapped a symbol on his wrist.
"Target neutralized. Transport requested."
No flourish. No pride. Just data. The signal was received. Orders acknowledged.
Without another look at the thieves, Maverick turned his gaze away from the evac platform and out toward the burning horizon. The civilians watched him in reverent silence as he stepped to the edge of the steel overlook.
The petty thieves were handled. Now, somewhere in the ash-choked ruins of New Bastion, the Planetary-class Bio-titans were waiting.
He crouched—and leapt.
Steel cracked beneath him at launch. Dust exploded where he landed.
The real mission had begun.